The Return
by Luna Lumen
Summary: Harry Potter dies. And stays dead, because he is the Master Of Death - or more specifically, he is Death.


Harry Potter died after living an almost unnaturally long life, even by wizarding standards – especially if one considered his childhood and the fact that he survived two wars; both times the victor, depending on one's definition of winning and losing. (Harry rather though that there were no real victories in war, but he was biased anyway. All of those lives – ruined, including his own.)

He outlived many of his loved ones, including his wife, two of their children and many of his closest friends. The people he considered friends now were much younger than him, almost all of them born after the twenty-first century. None of them thought of him as a normal friend, but idolized him as a war hero.

His biggest regret was that most of the people he had any kind of bond with had died in wars, not getting to have children or not getting to see them grow up, whether because of their own death or the death of their child. The joy of having a child and getting to see them grow up was worth the pain of losing them in Harry's opinion. He hated the fact that everyone he knew had been affected by wars in one way or another. He hated that there had been any wars at all after he'd defeated Voldemort. He'd hated the war against Voldemort.

There were many orphans after the First Wizarding War. There weren't any orphans after the wars (Yes, there had been multiple wars, though some thought of them all as one very long war; Harry was in the latter category) against muggles; they didn't target adults, only children. Adults were too dangerous, but children hadn't yet learned how to use their powers to protect themselves properly.

Harry didn't like thinking about how many of those children were taken to laboratories and cut open to see what made them tick. He'd been in one of those facilities personally once, on a rescue mission. In the end, the children they had been able to take with they – and there had been many more who just _couldn't _leave – had been too mentally scarred to live a normal life after.

It was a brutal and miserable time, a time Harry did his best not to think about because it was bad enough to live them once, until finally someone came up with a solution. It was a witch from Germany, one of Grindelwald's still loyal believers.

(There were plenty of people who were now beginning to see the Dark Lords in a new light, plenty who secretly thought that maybe they could have lived under them, or maybe tried harder to incorporate dark arts and magical beasts into their society, just because muggles were _so much worse_ by comparison. Many of the Dark witches and wizards who had been loyal all along acted inappropriately smug about the whole thing. Harry himself had been having regrets with just taking everything at face value and not bothering to see what Voldemort was trying to accomplish besides destroying muggles and muggle-borns.)

The German witch had already been working on a muggle repelling spell that would be more powerful than the original one, but the war most likely gave her new motivation and help. She and her assistants picked an island that was only known to magical beings and sent out a message through the wizarding radio. There weren't many of them left by then, but they still made it a priority to make sure the remaining children were taken there first after the place had been secured by protection charms.

It was safe-place for magical people and creatures, and since there were so few of them left, they'd had to stop all internal fighting. Harry had been pleasantly surprised by this because he'd often thought that even this couldn't bring them all together. He was happy to be proved wrong this time.

Still, there was one group that stayed a bit separate from the others. Muggle-borns were revered, since they were difficult to save from their muggle families – few were brave or stupid enough to leave the protection of the repellent spell – and a large number of surviving witches and wizards had been too old to reproduce by then. They were also hated because of their lineage.

Before the war had fully started, many muggle-borns had tried to get the muggles to see that not all magical beings were dangerous, Hermione being one of the most active and vocal one of them all. This had turned out to have no effect on muggles, which was completely unsurprising to everyone else except muggle-borns, though in Harry's opinion they, most of all, should have known how cruel humans could be to something they didn't understand.

Harry had experienced it first-hand when he'd lived with the Durselys, and he'd fought Voldemort, sure, but he knew now that there was a reason the Dark Lord had hated all muggles. His childhood had been similar to Harry's, even worse by some standards. It still didn't make Harry forgive him for his actions, but at least he understood them better.

(He learned even more about Tom's history after he _changed, _and began to forgive him a little. His shitty childhood didn't make anything he did to accomplish his goals at all okay, but the circumstances of his childhood explained why he'd ever decided to do what he'd done.)

So, he still had friends, or at least people who cared about him, but none of them were by his death-bed when he took his final breath. It was because he wanted it that way, even though it had once been one of his greatest fears. He just didn't want to see all those sad faces surrounding him, he wanted to remember happiness and joy above all else.

That's why, when he felt death approaching, he used the last of his magic to make sure that nobody could enter the room until he had passed away.

(Outside of that otherwise unremarkable room, the entire wizarding population, small as it was now, had gathered to witness and honour the passing of their hero and saviour.)

(*-,-*)

Ignotus took a deep breath as he felt his powers start to transfer over to the chosen one, relief evident in his every feature. Finally, all of his intricate planning was coming to fruit. For a while there he'd actually thought he'd have to deal with this curse for all of eternity.

(When it had seemed like nobody would pick up the Wand again, too scared by its power and the apparent curse; when the Stone was left with those interbreeding monsters who seemed to be dying out and would surely never leave their hut to find the other Hallows; when it looked like even his own last descendant would die and the cloak would be left to that idealistic old man who couldn't let go of the past and would clearly never be worthy of Ignotus's mantel despite being one of the most powerful wizards alive.)

It had been stupid of him to take the artefacts from his brothers' corpses, he could see it now. They had crafted their Hallows separately for a reason (they had been warned, they were never supposed to belong to the same person) he should have never thought to own them all himself, no matter how innocent he had thought his intentions to be.

Sometimes he wondered what his life would have been like if it had truly gone like the book. If he could have lived his life fully and gone with Death in peace (what a ridiculous notion, he was the only Death there had ever been) after giving his cloak to his son, instead of his precious son (who had always been a bit fragile, and would spend the rest of his life wondering if it had been his fault, if he had done something wrong, if it was because he hadn't been good enough) his Friedrich finding the body of his father with the three Hallows surrounding it. (He couldn't bear to think of his wife's reaction.)

And now, after all these year (_countless __millennia__, all of them spent alone; never able to do anything but watch over his kind and see them suffer) _he was free. True, he had only won his freedom by slipping his burden onto the shoulder of another, but if he was entirely honest, he didn't even care by this point. At least, in his defence, he had managed to let the child live his life until he was old and wrinkly, though he often wondered if it wasn't crueller to let the child see what the people he protected so earnestly would do to him and his kind after all that he had sacrificed for them. (It wasn't, of course. Seeing it later and not being able to do anything about it would be far worse, Ignotus knew from personal experience.)

_Harry Potter was the chosen one in more ways than he could ever imagine._

He felt it when the boy's soul left his body once and for all, and smiled with grim satisfaction, the expression laced with undertones of sympathy, but no guilt.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly

"Thank you," he said, and meant it.

(*-,-*)

The first time _Death _had referred to _themselves _as 'Death' had been when _they'd _finally accepted the fact that _they _weren't human any longer. _Their _previous name didn't belong to _them _any more (_They _weren't worthy to use the name their mother had given them.)

_Harry Potter._

_They'_d abandoned the name when it had finally become clear that no matter that _they _did, _they _still wouldn't be able to interact with the physical world. It didn't matter that _they_ had the most powerful wand in history; _their _magic could only affect _themselves_. (And oh, how _Death _had tried.) The Cloak of Invisibility had become over-powered when it had been united with the other Hallows and started to shroud _their _whole physical being so much that touching anything but _themselves_ became impossible.

_They _weren't the saviour of the wizarding world, _they _were _Death._ _They_ took care of souls and made sure they got to where they were supposed to go, even if _they _weren't aware of doing it most of the time. The Ring was the one that took care of all that.

Most of the time, _Death _just wondered why _they_ even existed.

_They_ took out their wand and cast the Patronos charm; it had become habit do so whenever _they_ were feeling extraordinarily downtrodden. The familiar stag form appeared as usual, though perhaps not as quickly as it used to, and ran around the clearing a couple of times before coming to _Death's _side. _They_ ran _their _hand along its mane and murmured a few complimentary words and phrases. Only beings _they_ summoned _themselves _could see _them_, which was a bit weird, but _Death _would take what _they_ were given without a fuss.

After a moderately long amount of time the stag butted its head against _Death _as if in apology, and disappeared. A sigh escaped _their_ lips once again, involuntarily. _They _twirled _their_ wand around _their_ fingers as _they _let _their_ negative feelings wash over _them._

_They_ hadn't liked the thought of immortality when _they_'d been mortal; _they_ liked it even less now. _They _could see how it could appeal to some people, those who didn't value relationships and human connections as much. Voldemort had been after power and knowledge, so the concept of living forever was perfect for him, but _Death_ had always been too emotionally connected to _their_ friends and family.

_They _knew that _they _could grow to not hate this as much as _they _did _if only _they_ could talk with somebody. _Or even just having another being acknowledge _their _existence would do the trick.

Sometimes _they_ thought about putting the Hallows in the physical world to wait for another person to collect them all, but _they_ could never do that. As the previous Death, most notably, had said to _them,_ the only people worthy of the Hallows were the ones who didn't fear death, and as such didn't even want the Hallows.

And besides, there was no guarantee that somebody worthy would be stupid enough to collect the Hallows like _Death _had.

(*-,-*)

There!

_Death_, who was already within touching distance of the boy, moved even closer in fascination and eagerness as _they _noticed the minuscule shaking of the object. The boy next to _them_ would have undoubtedly found this to be an invasion of his personal space, if he had known what personal space meant or had actually sensed that _Death_ was there.

(_Death _didn't even think about the fact that the boy would be terrified of _them_ if he knew what _they _were. _Their_ appearance would be scary to someone so young. _Death _looked a lot like _they _had when _they _were still a mortal in _their _thirties, but taller and skinnier, _their _face gaunt looking. _Their _skin was paler too, from no contact with any kind of sunlight, and _their _eyes had taken on the glowing green colour of the forbidden death curse. Dark, unruly hair was now even darker, as if every individual strand was sucking up all the light around it. _They _didn't look like _they _were a living being, more like a corpse of some kind of magical creature.)

Luckily for _Death_ (though _they_ had often considered this ability to be _un_lucky) nobody living had been able to see, hear, touch, or perceive _their_ presence for a couple of hundred thousand years by now. Though _they_ couldn't really be sure of the time-frame; _they'_d lost interest in keeping the time when the first dozen centuries had passed with no accaptable solution to _their_ problem in sight.

This was one of the moments in time that _they _liked to visit the most when _they _started to forget who _they _used to be. The first time _they _ever used magic. _They_ hadn't actually remembered this when _they_'d still been alive; _they_'d discovered it when _they_'d decided to see what _their_ life had been like from an outsider's perspective. _They_'d only thought to do something like that after a few decades had passed, and it had seemed like one of the greatest ideas _they_'d ever had. In the end, the only things that made the whole ordeal bearable were little gems like this moment; otherwise _they_ wouldn't have bothered to stick around to watch _their _whole life again.

(This was also how _Death _discovered that _they _could literally follow anyone in the world for however long _they _wanted. It was the start of a better time for _Death__.)_

"That's it..." _they_ mumbled encouragingly, _their _voice raspy from disuse, unheard by any but _themselves_ as they watched _their_ charge move the tiny toy soldier close to himself with newly discovered magical powers. Of course, the boy didn't know that what he was using was called 'magic'; his official guardians preferred to call those sorts of things 'freakish' and 'abnormal'.

He was only barely four years old, his fifth birthday just a few weeks away, and since his 'guardians' thought that his sort didn't have the right to go to kindergarten or anything associated with 'normal' human beings, he hadn't ever talked to anyone but his so called family, or heard anyone refer to his powers as anything but abhorrent and unnatural.

He was concentration hard for one his age, eyes squinting with effort and lips pursed in determination. A line of perspiration was gathering on his brow, and _Death_ forgot for a moment that _they_ couldn't actually manifest _themselves _in the physical world and tried to wipe it away with a long-fingered skeletal hand. _They _jerked the hand back quickly as it started to go through the boy's head.

_(They _were mostly okay with the whole 'not part of the physical world' thing by now, but sometimes _they_ simply forgot, and those moments were the worst.)

With one final pull, the toy started wobbling unsteadily closer until it reached the boy's waiting hands. A noise of triumph and unsuppressed glee burst forth from the lips of the boy, though it was quickly muffled by a tiny hand that should have rightfully had more baby fat on it. The movement was accompanied by a fearful glance upward, face frozen in an expression of terror.

After a few minutes of tense silence they both breathed a sigh of relief and turned their attention back to the miniature soldier in the boy's hands. While the boy's eyes were once again filled with awe and wonder, _Death'_s were clouded by sadness at the boy's heart-wrenching circumstances; even though _they _had relived this moment many times by now, once as the boy and many times as _Death_, and knew what would happen, _they _still couldn't help but feel the same basic emotions every time _they _visited. _They_'d watched hundreds of other people, from birth till death, but this little boy was always the one that awakened the strongest emotional response. _They _had, after all, lived this same life _themselves__._

_They_ spent only a short moment to linger on the negative emotions before they faded as _they _looked at the boy's radiant smile. _They'_d forgotten about this one moment of peace and happiness, the years having erased the memories long ago. They had been replaced with war and heart-breaking sorrow and blood. Seeing that one smile was almost worth all the misery that came before it and the oceans of sorrow that came after.

(That was a lie; nothing could ever make all of this better. _They _just liked to think like that to make _themselves _feel better.)

(*-,-*)

After that smile, _Death _only stayed for a few more minutes. There was a place during the early tenth century that had a big forest that was barely touched by humans. It was very green and lush, the wildlife alive and energetic. It was _their _own place, with nobody there to disturb them when they wanted to think or get from _their_ responsibilities. Granted, _they_ didn't actually have a lot of those. _They_ only had to exist, and through _them_ all of _their _tasks happened automatically.

Still, being _Death _was very taxing. Sure, he could go to any time and/or space he wanted, but nobody, absolutely _nobody_, could actually interact with him. It got a bit lonely after a while. Also, _they_ couldn't do anything that required a physical object either, so reading was out of the question unless _they _hovered over the shoulder of somebody else while they were reading.

Learning new languages was fun for some time, but once he'd learned enough of them it seemed insultingly easy to figure out all the others with only hearing them spoken once. They all had a few words that were the same in another language, and eventually he just grew bored with not finding something more difficult.

_They_ wished for a lot of things.

The last _Death, _or as _they _had liked to call _them _in the beginning, _'that __selfish__, irresponsible arsehole' _had been erased from existence when the new _Death _had officially died. For the second time. Often times _Death _wondered why _they_ hadn't turned into _Death _when _they _had died the first time around. _They_'d even tried to ask the first _Death_, but no answers had been given that time, or ever.

_Death _sat down between conveniently placed roots and sighed, a rattling sound that would have fit them better when they was old and dying. Getting to just sit here, in the middle of nowhere, had become a disturbingly comforting habit. It was frustrating to be in the midst of so many humans and have them ignore your very existence, no matter what you did or said.

_They _really didn't know what _they _were supposed to do now. The only amusement _they_ got was from watching other people live their lives, but even that was starting to lose its charm. _They_'d seen all of their friends, acquaintances and even complete strangers grow up and die. They'd actually even watched their parents and children and other close family.

_(Death _didn't consider what _they _were doing an invasion of privacy. It was _their _right to do so.)

_They_ watched them be born, watched them learn how to walk and talk. _They _watched them as they made their first friend and as they experience their first love. As they got their heart broken and screamed at the world for unfair it was. _They_ knew why they did some things, but didn't do others. _They _knew them inside and out. _They_ took their souls when they died and held them.

Repetition made everything seem dull, even the most wonderful and amazing things.

(*-,-*)

A tremendous amount of magic was gathering around _them, _both _theirs_ and natures. Only _they _were able to feel it, but that didn't mean much considering the only living things around _them_ for kilometres were plants and trees. It still wasn't enough.

The spell _they _were trying to cast had been invented by _them, _and it had taken what felt like an eternity to get even the theory right. This wasn't the first time _they _were trying to cast this spell; more like the hundredth. _They _couldn't do it too often either; it required too much magic.

_They'd _never thought of _themselves _as an inventor of spells, even though the book of the Half-Blood Prince had made it seem cool at the time. Over time _they'd _collected enough knowledge to passably understand what _they _were doing, but by no means would _they _call _themselves _a master.

Wars didn't need inventors, they needed soldiers, and that's exactly what _Death _had been. _Their_ entire life had been dedicated to following orders and fighting against the enemy. _They _were trained to know about strategy and enough about politics to not make a mess of things, which was hard work in the wizarding world.

Hermione had always been the one who dealt with spells and all that, and _they'd _been pretty much lost without her when she'd died trying to get a group of muggle-born children to safety. Even strategy wasn't strictly _their _area, but after Ron had been kidnapped and tortured until his mind, and body, had shattered, _they'd _had no other choice in the matter.

(Harry Potter had many friends, but nobody could replace his very first friends. They would always be his best friends, no matter what.)

_They _let out a startled sound which quickly turned into slightly hysterical laughter when the magic started shimmering right in front of _them._ Exhaustion was beginning to make itself known, but _Death_ wasn't giving up now when there was finally some progress after such a long time. _They_ pushed even more magic into the spell, even though the only reason _they_ were standing up right now was sheer willpower.

The shimmering place grew smaller and denser, until finally it was just big enough for _Death_ to fit through. _Death _took a step forward, _their _shaking fingers reaching out to touch it. This was it. A way to escape from this hell. A moment before _Death _could make contact; _they_ stopped, suddenly starting to doubt _themselves_. Had _they _done it right? What if it didn't work as it was supposed to?

No. If it didn't work, it didn't work. If it didn't do what it was supposed to do, then that was fine too. Anything would be better than this. _They _pulled _their _hand back and clenched it into a fist. There were only a few second left before the magic started to dissipate. It took _centuries_ to collect enough magic to perform this spell.

_They __let their _body fall into the hole created by the magic, and disappeared.

(*¤.¤*)

_Death_ opened _their _eyes slowly, feeling disoriented.

There was something very wrong with that thought. _They _couldn't have been sleeping; _they _hadn't needed to sleep since _they_'d died. _They _couldn't have been knocked out either for the same reason. _They_ tried to remember what _they'd _been doing last, but everything was disturbingly fuzzy.

Something was making a horrible racket, which made it even harder to think. It sounded like a baby was crying, its shrieks piercing the air continuously, as if it didn't need to breathe at all. Had _they _been near a baby? No, _they _haven't been around humans for decades now, not since _they_ started making the spell. It was too dangerous to be anything living, since the spell sucked up all the energy around it.

_Their _eyes widened almost comically as the last thought registered. _The spell!_ Had it worked? _They _pulled _their _body up into a sitting position, idly petting the fluffy carpet beneath them and thinking that it was actually a very comfortable place to land, and looked around, trying to spot anything that would indicate the spell's success.

The room _they_ were in was awfully familiar, but _Death_ couldn't seem to catch the memory just then; having copious amounts of knowledge wasn't always very helpful, especially if you simply had too much of it to sort through for one tiny thing. The place they were in looked like a nursery, which explained the crying baby, but not why _Death _was there. _They _stood up to get a better look at the baby to see if _they _could recognize it, and recoiled back when familiar green eyes looked back at _them._

The baby – _Harry _bloody _Potter – _was standing up in his crib, his eyes focused just a few inches to the right of _Death_, bawling his eyes out. His forehead was unmarked, and he looked to be about a year old. _Death _had seen him like this before, on one of _their_ many trips to _their_ past, so _they_ calmed down quickly and started cataloguing the rest of the room to find any differences.

Raised, panicky voices were coming from downstairs, but _Death_ was much too curious about his situation to pay attention to background noises. The room seemed to be an exact replica of the one back in _their_ own universe, assuming the spell had worked as it should have and had sent him to another one. The same toys looked back at him from various places strewn across the floor, and even that one scorch mark that had been badly repainted with muggle methods, because Lily would always be aggressively proud of her roots, was still there beside the lamp that James had charmed to change colour depending on Harry's mood, but was now unfortunately broken.

_They _were beginning to doubt that the spell had worked, and disappointment was starting to creep in when the door banged open and Lily Potter rushed in, her fiery red hair whipping behind her. Death stared at her with the same expression they got every time they saw her; awestruck love and longing. She shut the door distractedly, not aware of the silent third party in the room, and came to Harry's side, leaning down to brush a desperate kiss to his forehead.

"It's okay, Harry love, you'll be okay," Lily assured, the promise rushing out from between her lips with determination etched into every word. "I'll make sure you'll be okay."

Harry had calmed down as soon as his mother had come into his room, and he gave a little gurgle of laughter when she kissed him.

_Death's _eyes widened as he looked between the mother and son pair. So it was today. The day Harry Potter became simultaneously the most loved and the most hated figure of his time, and also lost any right he had to privacy. _They_ stood there uncertainly for a moment before deciding to stay and watch. Something seemed to be a bit different here, but _Death_ couldn't quite put _their _finger on it.

_They _looked at Lily more closely, since she was the only new thing right now. _They_'d spent an almost embarrassing amount of time just looking at Lily and memorizing every detail about her, so _they_ were pretty sure _they_'d notice if there was something wrong. Green eyes, check; bright red hair, check; almost the exact replica of _Death_'s facial structure when _they_'d still been alive, check; determined expression and trying to protect her only child, check; arm raised to proper duelling position to cast spells with her wand, check... wait.

A wand? Lily wasn't supposed to have a wand!

_Death _moved closer and gave an accusing look at the offending piece of magical wood. Why was Lily carrying a wand? She was supposed to have lost it just a few hours before Voldemort's arrival. She would have had a mini panic attack and yelled at James for at least half an hour before laughing it off because it wasn't like Voldemort was going to show up just because she lost her wand, right? And then she would go to play with Harry. It was why she'd never stood a chance against Voldemort, why she hadn't been able to protect Harry with more than words.

So this was definitely a different universe. _Death _almost felt like _t__he__y_ could sit down for a moment, to let the shock pass. There weren't any chairs around though, so _they _just sat down on the same place _they _had woken up in. The position also gave _them_ a much better view of the what was happening, except for Harry, who was hidden behind the railing of his crib, but he wasn't very important right now anyway.

Voldemort opened the door quietly before _Death_ could get too deep into contemplating what this all meant for _them. Death_ took a moment to really look at the Dark Lord, and decided that_ i_t was a bit sad to see him like this, since _Death_ had seen what he actually looked like before all the Horcruxes and other rituals did their damage. It was fitting too, in a way. It showed the way his soul had rotted.

_Death_ could feel the soul pieces tugging to get back to the original, though it certainly wasn't the biggest piece left. The dubious honour of that was given to the horcrux stuck in the diary. _They'd_ never really _felt _Voldemort's horcruxes before, and they were starting to wish that _they_ couldn't feel them now, either. They felt disgusting; Every awful thing in the world pressed together, every negative emotion and every ugly thought. Actually, it was staring to make _Death _a little nauseous. It was good that nobody could see _them _right now; the expression on _their _face really didn't fit with most people's images of Death.

"Lily," Voldemort sighed, sounding far too familiar, as if they were acquaintances as opposed to the mortal enemies they really were. "Lily, Lily, you really don't live up to the image of your name. You're far too Gryffindor for your own good." He gave her an indulging look. "Step out of the way, and I won't hurt you."

_Death_ glanced between the two adults, trying to figure out what was going on. _They _were almost a million years old by _their _reckoning; _they _should be able to understand this.

"I won't let you hurt Harry," Lily answered darkly, her wand pointing straight at Voldemort's heart, not wavering an inch. "I don't care what the prophesy says, and I think you're unimaginably stupid to put worth in it when everybody knows it'll only fulfil itself if you believe in it," she spat out venomously. _Death_ was pretty sure she was only saying all that because she knew that one of them wouldn't be leaving this room alive, but that didn't take away any of the awesomeness.

Voldemort snarled, his calm façade disappearing instantly. He raised his wand, the tip glowing the colour of _Death's_ eyes, before seeming to think better of it and lowering it to his side again. His expression changed to one of sly cunning.

"I must admit, I couldn't figure out why Severus would beg me to spare you after giving your child up so easily, but I'm starting to see it now," he hissed, lips twitching in cruel amusement. "Yes, it's quite obvious from this angle."

Lily didn't seem surprised by the change in subject, or about Snape's involvement in the situation, but then again she had always had an amazing ability to know people better than they even knew themselves. There was a small group of people – the leader, of course, being James Potter – that had decided that she'd mastered Legilimency at a very young age, and could see into the minds of even the most skilled Occlumens.

Unfortunately, there was no was for Voldemort to know of this, and so he became even more frustrated when his apparent plan to mentally unbalance the witch failed.

"Severus's loyalties have always been fragile at best," Lily noted with a smile that terrified even _Death_. _They _had no doubt that if she lived past this day, Severus would find his life to be very difficult from then on.

This seemed to be the final straw for Voldemort, and he drew his wand with a hiss. "Step aside, girl," he threatened. _Death_ levered _themselves_ up from _their_ previous sitting position when it became clear that the talking portion of the evening was over. _They_ cast a quick glance at Harry, who also seemed to be very interested by the happenings, before going closer to the two opponents.

"Avada Kedavra!"

_Death_ focused on the Stone so _they_ would be able to sense the deaths in the room, resigned to watch history repeat itself again, but _they_ were brought up short when Lily thrust out her wand with a sharp motion and quickly chanted a spell _Death_ had never heard before. The language was similar to Latin though, so _they_ were able to understand the basic meaning of it.

As soon as _they _figured out what the intention of the spell was, _t__hey_ rushed to get between the witch and wizard to stop the magic from connecting with the Dark Lord, even though _they_ knew that it was already too late. It passed right through _them_, absorbed the killing curse, and struck Voldemort dead in the heart area.

Lily crumpled to the ground; lifeless. Voldemort barely stumbled.

"What was that?" Voldemort asked the corpse, staring at his fingers with curiosity. He brought them to his chest and ran them over the cloth covered flesh, his expression unreadable. "Well, no matter." He raised his head to give Harry look of triumph.

_Death_ was still staring at Lily's body, reeling in shock. Why had she done that? What was the purpose of it?

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort repeated gleefully, but the spell didn't work this time either. Instead, it bounced back, leaving a scar in the shape of lightning on Harry's forehead.

The snake-like body of the Dark Lord turned to dust, no longer able to keep going without its soul and magic there to keep it intact. A tiny, mangled cloud of the original soul rose up, appearing to hesitate for a moment between going to_ Death_'s side, and leaving, before deciding on the latter when _Death_ spared no attention on it.

_Death_ still didn't look up, feeling like _their_ world had just been twisted into an unfamiliar, grotesque shape. It was a different universe, and for a second there _they'd_ actually thought that things would be different too, yet still Lily had died to protect her son; Harry still had a piece of Voldemort's soul in him; and worst of all, _they_ still couldn't do anything to change it all.

What was the point of coming here at all if it was just going to be a repeat of their previous world?!

This was supposed to be _their_ chance to get away, to find something that _they_ wouldn't get bored of. Something that _they_ could spend the rest of _their_ unnatural death doing so they wouldn't get lost in the dead.

A noise of discomfort and unhappiness broke through.

_Death's_ head snapped to take in the only other being in the room, feeling frozen to the bone. Harry was looking between his mother and _Death_, confusion very apparent on his expressive face. _Death_'s expression soon became a mirror of the same, _their_ eyes huge and disbelieving.

"Can you..." _They_ tried to say, the words followed by a coughing fit as _they_ used the voice box that had been ignored for a century at least.

Harry looked startled at the sound, and blinked up at Death with a peculiar expression. Death was pretty sure they were both dumb-founded right now. They stared at each-other, neither of them knowing what was going on.

_Death _gathered _their _courage and went to stand by the crib. Harry tilted his head so they didn't break eye-contact. There was a weird feeling gathering in the pit of _Death's _stomach, spreading right through to _their_ chest; the skin on _their_ face was feeling too tight and _their _eyes were burning. _They _hadn't felt like this since before _they _were still alive.

_What had Lily _done? She had to have created the spell herself; _Death _had never come across it or the language before. The words she had used were similar to the Latin words that meant giving ones life for another, and binding them together. Had it somehow affected _Death _as well?

Who were part of the spell then? Lily, of course, because she had cast the spell, and Voldemort, who was hit by it. But what about Harry and _Death? _It could be a spell meant to protect Harry? And it could have somehow, impossibly, affected _Death _as well when it passed through _them. _

But that was all speculation, no solid theory could be reached without Lily, and she was dead.

_Death_ resisted the urge to look at her corpse again, knowing that nothing important about her was left there. Her soul had left, mysteriously travelling to the other side without the power of the Ring to guide her.

Harry made a sound, reaching for _Death_ with his chubby hands. _Death _took a breath, bracing _themselves _for inevitable failure and disappointment before daring to give the small child _their _hand, which was immediately grabbed and brought closer to Harry's face for inspection.

It was a feeling they had forgotten, to be touched by something living. Harry's skin was soft and warm; fragile, not at all like the surface of the magical apparitions _Death _liked to summon when _they_ were feeling particularly touch-starved. He wasn't particularly careful, squeezing just a bit too tight with a child's ignorance, but _Death _hadn't felt anything so wonderful in such a long time that _they _didn't even think to mind.

This time _Death _was the one to break the silence. At first it was only heavy breathing, emphasized by small keening sounds at random intervals. Soon it developed into quiet laughter that could have also been sobbing.

_They _bowed _their_ head and thanked magic for being merciful.


End file.
